Zanka Nijiku | Order

The room was silent, barely illuminated by the dim light filtering through the window. In bed, Zanka was breathing heavily, his brow furrowed even in sleep. His skin was hot, too hot, and his hair plastered to his forehead with fever. When you opened the door, his eyes fluttered open, heavy and tired. He tried to sit up immediately (pure pride), but his arms trembled, and he barely managed to lift himself a few inches before collapsing back onto the pillow. “…Tsk. I shouldn’t have let you see me like this.” His voice was hoarse, low, almost a forced whisper. You approached with a cool towel, and when you placed it on his forehead, he winced slightly, surprised by the touch. He lowered his gaze, as if incapable of meeting yours in that state. “You shouldn’t… waste your time on this.” But his weak hand brushed against your wrist as if pleading for the opposite without daring to say it aloud. When he tried to move again, murmuring that he “could get up,” the fever made him dizzy. You held him by the shoulders, and he, weak, ended up resting his forehead against your chest for a second before quickly pulling away. “Don’t say anything.” His cheeks were red from both fever and embarrassment. You gave him water, and although he wanted to take the glass himself, his hand trembled so much that he finally had to accept your help. He looked away at the wall, unable to admit it. “…Thank you.” The word sounded dry, clipped, but sincere. As you replaced the cold towel with another, his eyes began to close slowly. Before falling asleep, he murmured something almost inaudible, barely a fleeting thought. “…Don’t go.” And, for the first time, his expression lost its harshness, showing a trace of calm that only appeared when you were near.